Kick accelerated when he could see the Hotel Del looming ahead on the Coronado beach. He pulled away from the group quickly and decisively. He did it because it felt good—not to drop the other runners—although when he was honest, he admitted that was one reason that it felt good. At the end of a long run, his body acted independently beneath him, his mind along for the ride, a pilot atop a powerful machine.

The old veteran was out, as usual, the one that called Kick "The Regular", which applied equally well to himself. The veteran must have gone longer today too—Kick usually saw him earlier. The veteran smiled and waved as Kick flew past, and Kick heard him yelling at the others, “Go get him!”

Pushing the accelerator one notch higher, Kick tried to concentrate on the sensations of the run: the strength of his legs beneath the pleasant ache, the give of the sand under each stride, the taste of the sea in each breath.

Even this enhanced pace, however, couldn’t keep him from the thoughts that had obsessed him throughout the run. “If I don’t make it by the time I’m 35, I’ll give it up and get a real job.” He had said it the first time to Kelly O’Connell. Back in New Jersey. Back when he was Howard Kikowski. The occasion would always be fresh in his memory.

“I don’t know where you’re going, Howard,” Kelly said after she returned the ring. “I don’t think you know where you’re going. I mean, you’re 26 years old and you’re still selling shoes at the Runner’s Space. OK, you’re an assistant manager. But you don’t like it; you don’t take it seriously. You don’t take anything seriously, Howard, not even me. No, that’s not true. You take running seriously. But that’s not a real job, Howard.”

He had tried to convince her, of course. Convince her that people did run for a living. “I’m good enough to be one of them,” he argued. And then, in one last attempt, and because he himself wasn’t fully convinced, he said, “If I don’t make it by the time I’m 35, I’ll give it up and get a real job.”

“Look me up when you’re 35 then,” Kelly retorted.

A week later he left for Boulder. He stayed with his college roommate for a month. Then, when winter set in, moved on to San Diego.

During that time, and in the coming year, the promise had become a refrain. He had said it to his parents, to his roommate, to the people he met in San Diego. He was 26—it seemed a safe thing to say. And it comforted people somehow. He never expected to be 35. As the years passed, he said it less and less often.

Shouts on the beach ahead pulled Kick back to the present. A platoon of Navy SEALS was landing, black heads riding the breaking waves just offshore. As each was thrown onto the beach, he scrambled to his feet and ran to catch the others already double-timing it through the deep sand. A drill instructor in a pick-up greeted the stragglers for their own special exercises before they joined the rest of the platoon.

The SEALS evoked a familiar combination of superiority and envy in Kick. In some ways Kick and they were very similar—both honed their bodies to endure fatigue and pain. Blowing past them as they huffed and puffed in formation, he felt like a thoroughbred next to Clydesdales. The SEALS, however, were professionals. If they survived this training they would be accepted in one of the most elite armed forces in the world. They trained for a reason and enjoyed both respect and remuneration for it. Kick wondered, as usual, how he would fare in their world, and, as usual, came to the same conclusion. He was a greyhound; the SEALS were Rotweilers. He would get chewed up.

Past the Hotel Del Coronado, Kick slowed, then dropped to a walk, a feeling not unlike touching down in an airplane after running for more than two hours. Turning, he viewed his closest friends as they came in. To a man they were thin, almost gaunt. The “prisoners of war” look was how Greg’s wife, Risa, described it.

Greg finished with Dave, Kick’s roommate. The youngest members of the group, both 25, they had little else in common. Greg had moved west from Denver a year ago after being laid off from Martin Marietta, and had quickly found a place for his computer hardware skills. Risa was expecting their first child in June. Dave had grown up on the San Diego beaches, or rather, gotten older—no one accused him of growing up. He had moved in with Kick in January because his parents had an “out the door by 24” policy.

Running was, in fact, the only thing any of them had in common. Humberto was a Navy officer from Miami, now riding out his last tour at Pacific Fleet headquarters. Jeff called L.A. home and played sax in a jazz band, the requisite late nights leaving him far from his best on morning runs. Rodrigo, after Kick the fastest of the bunch, waited tables. His friends followed a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy regarding his immigration status. Art, the old man at 41, maintained a private law practice.

That covered virtually everything Kick knew of their histories and professional lives. Several others in the group he knew by name only. He could, however, list their best times in the 10K and the marathon, and their strengths, weaknesses and preferences in any number of running contexts.

***

“You’re looking strong, Kick,” Art said, as he and Jeff completed the group now in the parking lot above the beach. Kick responded with a smile and a wave, keeping his attention on Humberto, who was describing a pain he was having below his left knee.

Grabbing a Gatorade from the trunk of his Saab, Art leaned on the fender and watched Kick in action. Art had seen Kick training with the elite runners at the track in Balboa Park where Kick was a struggling straggler. He had befriended Kick when Kick started showing up here, given him his nickname and enjoyed watching him develop into the role he now carried so comfortably.

“Hey Kick, are you running La Jolla Half?” Greg called from across the parking lot where he and Rodrigo were stretching.

“I haven’t decided yet. You?”

“Either that or the Pacific Beach 10K the week before. Actually, I’d like to do both—what do you think?”

“Not if you’re going to do both hard. Been there, hurt myself.”

Like proselytes touching the gown of the guru, each wanted a piece.

“Kick, have you seen the new Asics flats?”

“I saw your time in the Desert Dash, Kick...31 and change—Nice run! Did you win anything?”

“Kick, I’m planning to add a second speed workout per week looking toward the marathon in September. What would you recommend?”

Art himself was not immune, feeling honored when Kick asked about his race the previous weekend.

Twenty minutes later, having congratulated each other repeatedly, compared training and racing plans, injuries, shoes and war stories—a process Risa, ever the witty one, called “slapping each others butts”—the buzz of the run had worn off enough to let them think about heading home.

Greg started toward his car and Art called him back, “Just a moment. I’d like to make an announcement.” When the chatter died down, he began, adopting his courtroom tone, “As most of you know, tomorrow is Kick’s birthday. The big three-five.”

“Well it’s about time,” Jeff joked. “Maybe now I can win some age group awards.”

“Since he’s a running monk,” Art continued, “I’m sure he doesn’t have any plans, so I made reservations at Mariscos y Mas at eight. Let me know if you can make it.”

Amid calls of “Happy Birthday” and “See you tomorrow,” Art watched Kick’s eyes dull and his jaw stiffen, and wondered where that inward look was taking him.

***

Kim Kikowski Griener held her finger over the phone hook, ready to hang up before the fourth ring. She had already left one message this morning.

“Hello?”

“Howard? This is Kim. I thought I was going to miss you.”

“You almost did. I just got out of the shower and I’m heading out to work.”

“Pretty well. I’m not quite back to where I was two years ago, but close.”

“We saw a race on TV a couple of months ago. It was in California and I thought I saw you, but Jerry said you couldn’t run in that one.”

“The marathon trials?”

“I think so.”

“Jerry was right, I didn’t qualify.”

“Well you gave it a good try, anyway.” Kim paused, then continued when Kick didn’t respond. “Well, besides saying Happy Birthday, I wanted to let you know that Jerry says he has a client at an insurance company hiring researchers in Morristown. He’d give you a recommendation.”

“OK.”

“It wouldn’t be much at first, but it’s a good place to get your foot in the door.”

The line was silent. Kim waited. Her 2-year-old son, Chris, called to her from the living room.

“Well, if you’re interested, send Jerry a resume.”

“OK.”

“Listen, I’m sorry if I’m meddling. I was trying to help. I understood from Mom that you were looking for a job back here.”

“I didn’t tell her that.”

“She said that if you didn’t make it by the time you were 35, you would move on to something else.”

“I said that, yes.”

“Well...”

“How do you know I haven’t made it?”

“I don’t want to fight with you, Howard.”

“OK.”

The silence grew again, longer this time, the tension strong at first, then suddenly gone, as if the line had sprung a leak somewhere between New Jersey and California.

“How’s Jerry and the family?” Kick asked suddenly.

“We’re fine. Jerry’s been working long hours, of course. Tax season. Jennifer starts school next fall and can’t wait. You can probably hear Chris.”

“Jennifer’s going to school already? Wow.”

“Oh, by the way, Kelly O’Connell asked about you recently,” Kim said. “She’s working in the city and doing pretty well, I hear.”

“That’s good.”

“She seemed really interested in how you were.”

“Isn’t she married to that broker?”

“No. You didn’t hear? They were engaged a couple of years ago, but Kelly broke it off about...”

A crash from the living room interrupted her, followed by high-pitched wail.

“You probably should go.” Kick said.

“Yes. He can be a pill.”

“Thanks for calling. I’ll let you know about the job.”

“Whatever. Enjoy your birthday.”

***

Kick drove his battered blue and yellow taxi south from downtown and circled onto the Bay Bridge. The run had left him washed out—clean, free, at peace with himself and the world. Even Kim’s phone call hadn’t been able to disturb him. This was the great blessing of running, and the curse. It took your full physical and emotional being, flushed it at high pressure and left you empty and content.

He had picked up a couple near Horton Plaza and was taking them back to their hotel on Coronado. Even after 9 years, Kick felt the familiar surge of elation as he crested the bridge and started down the long curve onto the Coronado peninsula. The first time he had felt an overwhelming sense of light—sky, water, sun, air. Now he saw the details in the beauty. The towers of downtown San Diego sparkled along the bay on the right; to the left, the Silver Strand pointed south to the Tiajuana hills. Beyond the sand, the ocean stretched blue to the horizon, broken by the dark silhouette of Point Loma.

Everywhere he looked he knew intimately. He had claimed each neighborhood, each beach, each peninsula with his running feet. He owned everything he could see.

The newspaper on the seat beside him, folded open to the “Help Wanted” section, bumped into his leg as he turned a corner. He slid it under the seat, his focus straying to the windsurfers skipping lightly offshore.

***

Jean dropped her backpack next to the bus stop and turned her head to view her shoulder. Definitely burned. She dug in the pack for a t-shirt, pulled it over her swimsuit and tucked it in into her shorts. Her friend Sandra dropped heavily onto the bench.

An old blue taxi pulled up to the curb and the driver leaned out the window. He was young, late 20s or early 30s. Kind of cute in a skinny way.

“He’s really fast. I think he ran 2:57 last year. He’s been trying to get under 3:00 forever.”

“That’s great.”

“Have you run New York?” Jean asked.

“I did once, about 8 years ago.”

“How did you do?”

“OK. I ran 2:26.”

“Jeez. That’s like, almost professional, isn’t it.”

“Yeah. Almost.” He switched lanes quickly, throwing Jean off balance.

“Almost professional,” Jean heard him mumble to himself as he turned on the radio and she settled back into the seat.

***

Louise carried the resume over to her manager’s cube in the state employment agency.

“John,” she asked. “Could you take a look at this one for me?”

John reached out a hand for it without making eye contact. He muttered “Uh-huh’s” into the phone cradled in his full neck.

“What’ve you got here?” he asked as he hung up the phone.

“Howard Kikowski. Been in three or four times the past two years. Turned down two interviews six months ago. Said he couldn’t see himself doing either of them. Called yesterday—rather desperate. Said he’s ready to try for anything we’ve got.”

“So what’s he done?” John asked, glancing at the resume.

“A little of everything—retail, office temp, maintenance. Nothing very long. Been driving a cab for a couple of years.”

“He’s got a degree in Computer Science from Bucknell,” John observed, his voice taking on the snide overtones he used when talking about all but a few of the applicants. “He’s been out 13 years and had five or six dead-end jobs. What kind of a loser is he?”

“Well, he comes across pretty well in an interview. Interesting guy. Pretty impressive athlete.”

“Not really. What was it he said? ‘There are no minor leagues in running.’”

“Huh,” John said, handing the resume back and turning to his desk. “It’s nice human interest stuff, but half of the applicants we see now have run a marathon.” He shuffled a stack of files and looked back up at Louise.

“I don’t know what to tell you. He’s worse off now than when he graduated—people are going to be leery of him, and no one programs in Cobol anymore. I’d tell him to take anything he can get, be grateful, and stick with it for a while. He’s going to have to work hard to convince someone he’s serious. See if Larry has anything entry level administrative that you can give him.”

***

Kick flipped through the stack of mail as he climbed the stairs to his apartment: political flyer, electric bill, computer magazine for Dave, Road Runners Catalog, letter for Dave, running magazine. He deliberately placed the mail on the table and carried the job descriptions he had picked up from Louise to the couch.

Halfway down the first page he could feel the familiar claustrophobia: a tightness in his chest, darkness encroaching the edges of his vision. With each listing he felt himself squeezed further and further into the tiny boxes they described. He found himself on the second page with no clue what the last three jobs on the first page had been. He tossed the sheets aside. When you give up your dreams, how do you decide what is right for you? Any would do. None would do.

Near the back of the running magazine he found an ad for a new race in North Jersey: the Palisades Marathon. They planned to be the largest debut marathon on the east coast—extensive corporate sponsorship, $10,000 in prize money, scenic, out-and-back course. Mile two and twenty-five ran through Kelly’s hometown.

He walked to the bedroom and returned a moment later carrying shoes, shorts and training calendar. He kicked off his shoes while paging back through the log—eight weeks since his hamstring hurt enough to alter his schedule, the last six over 100 miles per week. Three runs over 20 miles, including this morning. A few short races. Not much speedwork yet.

He counted forward to the marathon—12 weeks from Sunday. He still had time.

***

Tossing the calendar and magazine on top of the job descriptions, he pulled on shorts, shoes, and headed out for a run.

The old veteran watched the sun sink below the horizon from a bench at the top of the beach. The gold ocean faded into orange, pink and violet.

A silhouette emerged from the dusk to the south and moved along the beach between the old man and the shore. The Regular—his stride as identifiable as a fingerprint. Running slowly tonight. Alone.

The old man’s eyes smiled as they followed the receding figure of the Regular glide up the beach. “You’ve got it right, son,” he said quietly, “You’ve got it right already.”